This is My Favorite Time of Night
by Kelixir
Summary: Jack takes a serious moment to consider his greatest treasure in life.


Summary: Jack takes a serious, not soaked in rum, moment to consider his greatest treasure in life.

A/N: since this is my first fanfic, please no flames! Jack may be a little out of character but hopefully I explain that a bit. I've read only a few of the fanfics about Pirates so if this is like another, and I tried to check to make sure it wasn't, I'm terribly sorry. I don't own anything Pirates, Disney does, and I'm not getting anything for this. Except, hopefully, some nice reviews!

smiles, kelixir

**8888888888888888888888888**

"Where's the rum?" I say to myself, realizing it's been far too long since my last tango with the spicy liquor for anyone's good. I'm far too lucid for my liking. I turn to my bed and see the bonny lass that stole my heart sleeping soundly. "Did you take me rum?" She mumbles in her sleep and, unwittingly, the corner of my mouth turns heavenward and I mutter, "As you were, luv," as I forget my quest and swagger over to the bed.

This is my favorite time of night.

Just as she's slipping off to the sweet land of dreams and she can do all the things that she'd never think of doing in the real world. Not that I don't encourage her to bring out the pirate trapped within her fair body on a regular basis.

But that's another tale, savvy?

I get away with so much as she thinks she's peacefully in dreamland that I must say being a pirate is far better than people give it credit. If I had been asked several years ago if I'd ever settle down with just one woman, I would have scoffed and said, "There be only one woman for me and she's not the marrying kind."

But, alas, I've digressed from the topic at hand.

Now, I lay watching her sleep. I've discovered that if I rub my sea-worn fingertips just so against her bare shoulder, she'll turn to me and capture my arm with hers, hugging it tight to her as if her prisoner. I enjoy that immensely, I must say. She'll inevitably mumble something entirely inappropriate that I always quirk my eyebrow at and I'll rub aforementioned fingers across her tanned cheek in response earning a grin for my efforts. There's nothing like her smile. Almost as perfect as a sunrise after a mêlée with a hurricane. Perhaps you're thinking that dear ole Jack isn't serving her best interests as husband. Well, I'm still a pirate through and through and she never faults me for that. Nigh never. More or less. Before.

But then she reminds me what the sea can't offer as I untie the mop of seaweed she calls hair; really it reminds me of honey, both in smell and look, and I realize that, though a ship offers freedom, there is far greater things in life that also makes a man feel free. My wife definitely is one of those things.

She smells of all the glorious things in life that a good pirate should experience if he's to call himself a pirate; the flowers of the Far East, the spices of rum, the salty sea breeze, and all things gloriously allocated to the fairer gender that makes a man unsure of which direction the sun sets.

Her fingers like to trace certain scars on my person leading me to think she's more awake than she lets on. It's such a simple thing, yet it makes me feel alive, nigh invincible. Sometimes, I have to make her stop for I am ruddy ticklish but her fingers always return to their playground, mapping out the course of my life and there's far too much pirate coursing through her veins to try and stop her again.

I, however, am not without my own delights. I've discovered much to my enjoyment, and not to hers, that she's scandalously ticklish just above her right knee. Well, not being one to leave uncharted territory undiscovered, I quickly made use of this little fact and created something that she's branded "spider bites". The yelps that escape her lips followed by her intoxicating laughter are well worth the slap to my shoulder that follows.

The whelp has often inquired as to the motivation for my disregarding of the unwritten yet highly observed pirate code of "a lass—or two—per port" by choosing this particular member of the female species to which I reply with the indefatigable response of, "pirate." Half the time he'll raise an eyebrow at me and look skeptically, as if my answer doesn't satisfy him. The other half, that same pesky eyebrow will raise but will be accompanied by a coltish grin as he looks to his wife or has thoughts thereof.

Ah! but now I remember my previous quest of rum and try to extricate meself out from under her arm to no avail. My fingers run deftly along her arm like a great master playing his violin, trying to find the sweet spot to get her to roll over but they stop--always on the same spot. They trace the brand on her right forearm. My anger grows. If I ever find the verminous dog who defiled her fair skin, I'll tickle each of his ribs with a blunted cutlass. Inadvertently, my fingers brush said key spot and she rolls away, allowing my escape.

Now to the rum. But then the nipper starts. Another treasure far greater than silver or gold, I've discovered. And so, my quest is halted again as I cross the room and pluck him from his bassinet, turning his fussing into giggles. Lying back down, I deposit him on my chest and my wife instinctively rests her hand on his stomach to settle him. I've often heard her joking with certain crew members that she's unsure of which of the Sparrow men totter more which I don't take as a personal slam, just one of thoughtful observation.

Soon the little tyke calms and I return him to his cradle no worse for wear. I head to the doors, ready to make my leave. A memory comes to me. Something that I promised to tell her. I utter my thoughts, "Lizbeth".

Over on the bed, one eye opens effortlessly confirming my suspicions that she is closer to being awake than asleep and she says, "That's not my name, luv," and drifts finally into slumber.

Of course that's not her name. But from my rum-deprived mind, it was the first word that escaped my lips. Penance would be long tonight, I could sense it. And retribution would make my penance seem tame. "…and really bad eggs…" I sing, walking slowly out the door.

the end.


End file.
